


By Flash and Thunder

by Polaris



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Historical, M/M, Mutual Pining, Wingfic, mild homophobia, references to slavery and killing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-16 11:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21507433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polaris/pseuds/Polaris
Summary: The door gave way with a crack, and several large, armed men stepped into the room. They stared at Aziraphale for a long moment. A few glanced at each other, and one muttered something. The closest one drew his sword.And then a familiar voice said, “Aziraphale?”Aziraphale is a monk at Lindisfarne. Crowley is a Viking.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 599
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Gomens Favs





	1. Chapter 1

The tide rolled slowly in, along with the chill. Aziraphale set another log on the fire and lit the candles as shadows crept along the damp stone walls. The scriptorium, with its large windows designed to make the most of the light, always got cold so much faster than the rest of the priory. 

Monastic life was far less exciting than gallivanting around as a knight, but Aziraphale found this suited him. He was beginning to realize that he didn’t much like being a warrior. No, leave him be with his books and a warm fire for cold nights and he could ask for little else. Of course, the books weren’t properly his, but he worked closely with the scribes to ensure their care, so he felt rather responsible for them. And the isle of Lindisfarne had a phenomenal collection, including the very fine gospels commissioned only a century ago for Bishop Cuthbert. Aziraphale couldn’t ask to be anywhere finer, except for perhaps Aachen, where Charlemagne was poised to do great things.

The only thing lacking was the food. It had been a lean year, and reports of famine poured in from all over Northumbria. Aziraphale was heartsick over it, but even his miracles only went so far. Thankfully, the priory had prosperous gardens that promised a bounty to keep them fed all through winter. There was something simply wonderful about thinly sliced radishes on thick bread with a smear of cheese. Let the noblemen’s sons complain of not eating meat; Aziraphale could live on exquisitely roasted cabbage and delicate fish.

Pity the cook boiled everything. Still, the pleasure of the books made up for the uninspiring cuisine. Aziraphale ran a proprietary hand over the spines of the shelved books as he passed with a candle, smiling at the sight of them. The scribes were all at mass currently, which suited Aziraphale as he preferred to praise the Almighty in his own way. Not that anyone would notice his absence. He went often enough that he felt justified in using his miracles to skip once in awhile.

And if it made him feel a bit naughty, well, that was between him and his conscience. After all, his entire purpose here was to glorify Her and further Heaven’s agenda to spread belief throughout Europe.

The ships, he later learned, came ashore silently while everyone was gathered at mass. That was why no one saw them until it was far too late.

The first Norsemen came into the chapel, slaughtering the monks as they prayed. Still more swarmed the priory, battle cries raising the hair on Aziraphale’s arms. He heard them in time to bar the door to the scriptorium, although he did so without hope. The raiders from the north had a reputation that had carried all the way to this remote isle, and the best Aziraphale could expect was a rather perfunctory discorporation before they sacked the whole priory.

His _books._

No. No, he simply couldn’t allow it. There were limits to what a humble principality should have to tolerate, and they ended at boiled cabbage with no salt. He was _not_ giving up his books without a fight. 

Eyes on the door, listening for approaching footsteps, he picked up the iron poker next to the fireplace. If they came here to kill him, it was self-defense, he reasoned, already planning ahead in case Gabriel had any concerns. And he was defending the word of God. Yes, that ought to be a satisfactory explanation.

They were at the door. 

Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe, but even if he’d been human, he was certain the breath would freeze in his lungs when the rhythmic chopping began. They were hacking at the door, forcing their way in, and while the priory was well-funded and well-built, wood could only withstand so many blows from Norse iron. Before long, he would have to face them.

It didn’t occur to him until much later that he could simply send them somewhere else; he was thinking, in this moment, like a very desperate, frightened, and pissed off monk rather than the leader of a celestial platoon in the war against the Fallen. That was such a long time ago, after all, hadn’t seen the old chaps in ages, and he’d been on Earth living among humans for so very long. 

The door gave way with a crack, and several large, armed men stepped into the room. The first thing they noticed was the bookshelves. The second was Aziraphale’s poker swinging toward their faces. He took down one, stepping neatly around the fallen body and placing himself between the rest of the raiders and the books.

“Terribly sorry about this,” he said in a cheerfully manic voice, “I don’t think your friend is too badly injured, and if you’d simply go back down the way you came we can avoid all sorts of unpleasantness. There’s a lovely cabbage crop in the garden if you’re peckish.”

They stared at him for a long moment. A few glanced at each other, and one muttered something. Then the closest one drew his sword.

“Oh shit,” Aziraphale muttered, raising his poker. He could feel his magic gathering instinctively, ready to release the full force of angelic power on these raiders who were, in spite of their murdering ways, only human. The hardest part would be to let himself be discorporated instead of actually using it.

And then a familiar voice said, “ _Aziraphale?_ ”

The Norsemen stopped and turned back toward the doorway.

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped. “ _Crowley?_ What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Scuse me, budge up,” Crowley muttered as he pushed his way toward the front of the pack. He was wearing his hair longer than ever, intricately braided and held back from his face with serpentine silver clasps. The leather jerkin he was wearing was a deep rich black, not faded with sun and use like those of the other men. He was also considerably skinnier than anyone else there. “Hang on, lads, this one’s mine.”

“I certainly am not!” Aziraphale puffed up, indignant.

“You are if you don't want to get better acquainted with Bjorn’s ax over there,” said Crowley, spreading his hands. 

Aziraphale craned his neck to look at the ax in question. It looked very sharp. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he hissed.

“Follow my lead,” muttered Crowley, and slipped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale flinched out of habit, making Crowley’s jaw tighten imperceptibly as he spoke to the raiders in their language. What he said was a mystery, but they all began nodding as though it made perfect sense.

“What did you say?” Aziraphale demanded.

Crowley glanced at him. “They think I’m a descendant of one of their gods. It’s great, no one dares stop me doing exactly as I like. I told them I saw you in a vision and you’re meant to come with us.”

“The hell I am!” Aziraphale jerked away from him. “They slaughtered men of God!”

“So do lots of men of God.” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale couldn’t quite refute that, so he said, “and they were going to sack this place! All my books—”

“Your books?” Crowley looked around. “Oh, for—” He rubbed his forehead. “Angel, the books are coming with us too.” His expression went suddenly sly. “Be a shame if you weren’t there to protect them, wouldn’t it?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. Damn him, Crowley had a point. “And what if our head offices find out we’re together?”

“Oh, you’re thwarting me,” said Crowley easily. “Bringing the gospel to pagans, aren’t you? And I’m doing my best to keep them raiding and terrorizing the rest of Europe.”

“That sounds very tidy,” Aziraphale said, unconvinced.

Crowley’s lips quirked. “They have oysters,” he said.

Oh, damn him twice. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

“They smoke them,” he pressed. “And the fish. This pink sort called salmon that they serve with dill sauce.”

“And thirty pieces of silver,” hissed Aziraphale. It was really too much. Aziraphale might be a bit of a sensualist, but he wasn’t about to turn his back upon God for a bit of quality seafood.

“I hear,” said Crowley silkily, “that they spared the cook. You could always stay here. I think you mentioned cabbage?”

Aziraphale glared at him. “That’s low, Crowley.”

Crowley gave him a winning smile.

There was nothing for it. “You said dill sauce?” he asked, a little plaintively.

“Oh yes.” Crowley nodded.

“ _I_ will pack up the books,” Aziraphale told him, scraping together what was left of his dignity. He set down the poker and walked to the shelves, dithering over which volumes to take. The famous Lindisfarne Gospels, of course; those were the priory’s most precious possession and simply couldn’t be left out of his collection. Other manuscripts followed, and soon Crowley was translating as Aziraphale barked orders at the confused but ultimately obliging Norsemen.

“You’re going to sink the ships at this rate, angel,” said Crowley, picking up a book to absently flip through it.

Aziraphale snatched it back. “Give me that. And these are all very important texts, Crowley. If—if I’m truly to bring the Almighty to these people, we’ll need them.”

“We?” Crowley looked delighted. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that.”

He wasn’t going to respond to that. Aziraphale sniffed and set the book down to be packed in an oilskin lined box. “How long is the journey?”

“Not long. Only a few days east.” Crowley peered at him. “So how’d you go from being a knight to a monk?”

Aziraphale spared him a sideways glance. “The church’s power is growing,” he pointed out. “I go where I’m told, same as you.”

Crowley hummed absently in agreement. “It’s not as damp there,” he said apropos of nothing. “You’ll like it.”

Aziraphale set his jaw and busied himself overseeing the way the boxes were loaded onto the ships. That took several hours, and allowed him to ignore the pleading looks of the other monks who were being loaded onto the boats as slaves. This sort of thing happened all the time, he told himself forcefully. The Great Plan was ineffable. 

Crowley stalked around, a black wraith in the mist, appearing and disappearing as the tide rolled back in. He kept looking at Aziraphale, but Aziraphale was too irritated to want to make conversation. Half the priory had been killed; they wouldn’t let him bury the bodies, and while he hadn’t been terribly close to any of the dead monks, he did love them as part of God’s creations.

When it was time to depart, after a day’s worth of pillaging and ransacking, Crowley offered Aziraphale his hand from the deck of the boat. He was far too casual about it, pursing his lips and sucking his teeth and looking every which way but at Aziraphale, who took his hand and was pleasantly surprised to find his touch didn’t burn.

“Careful,” muttered Crowley, dropping his hand as soon as he was on board. “You’ve no sea legs.” 

Perhaps his touch _did_ burn. Aziraphale would ponder it later. In the meantime he sat where Bjorn of the sharp ax gestured, flexing his fingers and deliberately refusing to dwell on how warm Crowley’s hands were. He couldn’t help but notice he’d been seated with the Norsemen, not with the other captured monks. That made him feel unaccountably guilty, and he looked around in vain for someone who spoke his language—he was certain he’d need permission to move.

A sallow-faced youth with mouse-brown hair and pimples watched him gesture futilely, sharp eyes tracking the movements of his hands. The child—barely sixteen, by the look of it—tilted his head and asked something.

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?” he asked politely.

The youth spoke again, looking just as confused as Aziraphale felt, and something in the pitch of the voice made him squint.

“Oh good lord,” he muttered, “You’re a girl!”

She shrugged, scratching at a pimple on her chin.

Aziraphale sighed and looked around for Crowley. They were fully out to sea now, land a distant dream behind them, and Aziraphale was feeling rather small and very alone.

As if he could sense that Aziraphale wanted him, Crowley drifted over, squatting on the deck next to Aziraphale and offering him a few strips of dried meat. “Here,” he said, “dunno how long it’s been since you’ve eaten.”

“What’s going to happen to them?” Aziraphale asked, tearing a bite off the jerky. It was good, smoky and salty, with a hint of herbs that zinged across the tongue. 

Crowley followed his gaze and winced. “Forced labor,” he said shortly. “This lot farms most of the time and they always need more hands.”

“They’re farmers?” Aziraphale couldn’t quite reconcile swords and ploughs when facing these large, fierce men.

Crowley shrugged. “Yeah. Long winters, but they make the most of the growing seasons.”

“You make sure these men are well-treated,” Aziraphale warned him. “I won’t stand to see them abused.”

Crowley glanced at him. “You realize that by their laws, I’m your master now, don’t you?” 

“You’re my _what?_ ” Aziraphale stood up very quickly. Several people turned to look in his direction.

“ _Sit down!_ ” hissed Crowley, grabbing his sleeve and pulling at it. “Are you out of your mind? It’s not _real,_ angel!”

“If this is some—some demonic plan of yours to capture an angel, then I will have you know that I am no less a warrior than these people are!” cried Aziraphale. “I may not look terribly intimidating, but I assure you—”

“I watched you bash Erik’s brains in with a bloody poker!” snapped Crowley, looking angry now. “I know what you are, Aziraphale. This isn’t a trick, it’s saving you from getting discorporated so they don’t send some wanker to replace you, now _sit down._ ”

Aziraphale jutted out his chin in a show of temper, but sat, huffing loudly so that Crowley had no doubts at all about the fact that it was Aziraphale’s idea, and that Crowley could not, in fact, order him about.

Crowley had the gall to roll his eyes, but he said, “thank you,” in a voice that was only partly sarcastic.

Aziraphale took a dignified nibble of his jerky. It was quite good. Far better than boiled cabbage, though there was no way he was going to admit this to Crowley. Bad enough he’d been convinced to enter into this...this pact at all. If it hadn’t been for the books, he’d never have done it. Oh, he dreaded the next time he had to report in. What was he going to tell Gabriel? It was quite one thing to allow himself to be taken to spread the word of God, but to be enthralled by a demon?

Crowley’s leg pressed against his, a long line of heat that, in spite of himself, Aziraphale appreciated. The sea air was quite cold, and he hadn’t been dressed for traveling when he’d been herded down to the shore like a sheep. Instead of allowing himself to move closer, he huddled into his robe. The coarse wool was meant to remind them of the hardships Jesus had faced, but Aziraphale’s robe was quite soft inside. He’d watched Jesus at a distance, and hadn’t remembered the man declaring that people had to deny themselves comfort as long as they helped others.

Sadly it wasn’t very warm in the face of the North Sea, but Aziraphale would rather freeze in silent protest than admit to Crowley that he was cold.

Then Crowley shivered, rubbing his arms briskly and breathing a puff of white steam into the air, and Aziraphale leaned against him with a put-upon sigh. “Honestly,” he muttered, “you should have dressed for this.”

“‘M cold-blooded,” Crowley mumbled, hunching his shoulders and leaning into Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale huffed, but continued to nibble at the jerky Crowley had given him. Eating passed the time, and distracted him from the biting cold enough to let him strategize how he was going to spin this to the head office. Crowley was his master by the laws of the Norsemen, but that could work to his advantage. Teaching other thralls about Christianity could count as a favor to Heaven, and blessing them would definitely be considered such. But how to convince them that he’d accomplished such things right under a demon’s nose...

Funny word, enthrall. Certainly, it meant being taken as a slave, but it had also begun to mean other things as well. Aziraphale hazarded a glance at Crowley’s profile, taking in the fiery hair, the strong nose, the sharp jaw. Temptation was what demons did. If Heaven thought Crowley was keeping Aziraphale around for the purpose of tempting him to Fall...

Well, Aziraphale performing blessings and saving souls under those circumstances would be more than exemplary. There could be no question of his own loyalty and moral fortitude in the face of Hell’s most celebrated agent. It would be a real feather in his wing. A primary, even, rather than a mere pinfeather.

He did worry a bit about how Crowley’s side would react to this story, but he suspected that Crowley was clever enough to manage his own excuses. After all, he was the one who chose to spare Aziraphale in the first place.

Crowley’s hair fluttered in the wind, tickling Aziraphale’s neck and making him shiver. He turned his head to snap about it and caught Crowley staring ahead at the sea with a strange expression on his face. Against the stark backdrop of the water he seemed especially otherworldly; his hair flowed around him like liquid fire, and his skin was luminous in the golden glow of the setting sun. For an instant, Aziraphale could see a glimpse of the angel he’d once been, and the beauty of it made him look away, suddenly uncomfortable with how lovely Crowley was in the light.

There was nothing left to eat, so he wrung his hands instead. “Are we to sleep out in the wind?” he finally asked. The ship was so shallowly built that there was nowhere safe from the cold sea air.

Crowley blinked yellow eyes at him and jerked his chin over his shoulder. Aziraphale turned to watch several of the Norsemen setting up thick fabric tents across the length of the ship. The men who had been rowing left their work and joined in, leaving the wind to do their work for them.

“Oh,” murmured Aziraphale, impressed despite himself by the ingenuity of it all. They really were remarkable sailors.

“See?” And Crowley was smiling, an expression that managed to be sly and sweet all at once. “Clever, these humans. Now we’ll be out of the wind.” He stretched, long and dark, and got to his feet. “You’re with me, angel. Stick close and no one will ask any questions.”

“What’s to question?” asked Aziraphale warily, but he did get up and follow Crowley to his designated part of the ship. Crowley snapped his fingers and miracled up a bedroll big enough for two. “Crowley, I don’t sleep.”

“No? Ought to try it,” Crowley told him. “No better way to pass the time here.”

Aziraphale looked around. It was far too dark to read, even with the moon, and with the majority of the crew bedding down, there was nowhere to pace on the narrow ship. He sighed. “So I’m to simply lay down with you in your bedroll—” A thought occurred to him and he had to stop. “Crowley,” he said slowly, “when you say they think you’re my master, what does that mean?”

Crowley huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “ _Yes,_ angel, I’m fostering the impression that you share my bed. I said I found you in a vision, remember? That means we’re _destined._ We both know it’s just a farce, now will you please stop making me look bad here?”

“I can’t believe you!” Aziraphale hissed as he climbed under the blanket. “This is—” he cast around for a word. “Blasphemous!”

“I’m a bloody demon,” Crowley snapped. “That’s what I do! Now shut up and stop pretending you aren’t cold.”

“I’m not cold,” muttered Aziraphale, even though he was actually quite cold.

Crowley didn’t bother responding, just pressed up against his back and pulled the blanket tighter over them. He really was delightfully warm, and Aziraphale wiggled a bit to get more contact. He didn’t protest when Crowley slung an arm around his waist, but Crowley muttered, “just shut up about it,” anyway.

Aziraphale sighed. “We’re supposed to just lay here for hours while everyone sleeps?”

“Unless you want to try your hand at fornication, yeah.” Crowley was rolling his eyes, Aziraphale could hear it in his voice. 

Aziraphale retaliated with an elbow to his ribs, which made Crowley yelp and dig his fingers into Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale jerked, slapping at his hand, and Crowley slapped at _his_ hand, and Aziraphale knew this was ridiculous but rolled over anyway, pinning Crowley under him.

“There’s no need to be vulgar,” he said primly.

Crowley gaped up at him.

There were a few snickers from nearby bedrolls, and a few comments in the Norsemen’s language that Aziraphale couldn’t understand. Crowley snapped something back at them and shoved Aziraphale roughly. It wasn’t terribly effective, as Crowley’s corporation weighed considerably less than Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale remembered belatedly that he was supposed to be helping Crowley maintain his reputation. Or at least not actively damage it. He sighed and crawled off, settling in again with his back to Crowley. 

Crowley was hesitant reaching for him again. Aziraphale told himself it didn’t bother him. They were an angel and a demon, he reasoned. They weren’t supposed to be touching each other anyway.

—

Aziraphale woke up with hair in his mouth. Eventually, after a few hours of refusing to speak to Crowley, he’d fallen asleep from pure boredom. Now, he found, he wasn’t certain that had been a good idea. He’d turned over in his sleep, and now he had a lanky demon coiled around him rather like the snake he was. And there was hair in his mouth. He pulled a face and spat it out, blowing the rest of Crowley’s rat’s nest away from his face. 

Crowley grumbled, face pressed into Aziraphale’s neck, and continued to sleep.

Aziraphale stared up at the canvas above him, wondering if this was Her idea of a punishment. She wasn’t usually so subtle, but he didn’t put much past Her. 

But Crowley was so very warm, and Aziraphale’s nose was already chilly just being out in the air, and there were other people around them still sleeping...

He hesitantly rested a hand on Crowley’s back, prompting a pleased little sigh from the demon. Well, if anyone asked he could always say he was just playing along with Crowley’s plans. The better to thwart them. Yes.

Crowley really was very warm. And when he turned his face to blink sleepy yellow eyes at Aziraphale, his face was so soft and open that for a moment it was easy to forget that he was a demon. 

“Morning, angel,” he murmured, sitting up and stretching. Aziraphale told himself he didn’t miss the warmth.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale replied crisply. He looked around. Nothing but sea. “We seem to be moving rather swiftly.”

“Yeah, they can do up to fifteen knots if the wind is with us,” Crowley said idly. He yawned.

“You sleep voluntarily?” Aziraphale asked him, wrinkling his nose.

“What, you don’t like it?” Crowley blinked.

“Not at all.” Aziraphale sighed, looking out over the open water. “I woke up with a crick in my neck.”

Crowley pouted in mock sympathy, which got him another glare from Aziraphale. He cheerfully ignored it and went to find more dried meat from somewhere. “Cheer up, angel,” he said, sitting back down with several pieces. “We’re set to arrive tomorrow if the wind stays like this, which it will.” He grinned. “After that you can soak in a hot spring or eat some porridge or whatever you like.”

“I’d like my books,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley waved a hand. “I can arrange that. Don’t look so glum. It’s not that bad, really.”

Aziraphale looked at the other monks, miserably huddled together. “Those men are all going to find themselves well-treated,” he said. “And free before long.”

Crowley followed his gaze and pulled a face. “Well, I won't stop you. Don’t care for the slave trade.”

“Then why live among slavers?”

“Already told you that, didn’t I?” Crowley looked annoyed. “Doesn’t your lot assign you to places?”

“Occasionally,” admitted Aziraphale, chewing thoughtfully. “Usually on a more short-term basis.”

“Well, this was a long-term assignment.” Crowley handed over another piece of meat without eating it. 

After that there was very little to say. The day passed, long and monotonous, and Aziraphale slept next to Crowley that night, sighing when he woke yet again with a face full of unruly red hair. 

The worst part was that it smelled pleasantly of herbs. 

When they finally landed, Aziraphale was surprised to find that they could bring the ships directly onto the beach. Crowley escorted him off, past the flurry of disembarkation and the crowds gathered to welcome the party home, and led him to a large, comfortably appointed house. Inside, there was a girl of about thirteen next to the stove, stirring a pot. She leapt to her feet when they entered, speaking rapidly to Crowley in their language.

“You have a slave!” Aziraphale gasped, scandalized.

“Technically, I have two.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “Some nasty piece of work was trying to bid on her. I read his intentions loud and clear and snatched her up. Don’t spread it around, alright?”

Aziraphale blinked. “You...spared her from...”

“Well, Satan knows I don’t want her for that!” Crowley looked disturbed. “This way she has a wage and a roof over her head until she comes of age. Won’t be long now.”

“Doesn’t seem very demonic,” said Aziraphale, trying and failing not to be charmed.

Crowley shot him an irritated look. “I’ve got better ways to spread evil,” he muttered, slouching over to a table near the window and sitting down.

“What’s her name?” Aziraphale followed suit, peering at the girl as she hurried to bring a jug of something and two earthen cups.

“Hm? Dunno, I just call her girl. She can pick her own name.” Crowley took the cup she poured without thanking her. “I did.”

That was true. Aziraphale favored her with a kindly smile, which was shyly returned before the child scampered away to check the fire again. He took a sip of the liquor and blinked rapidly. “This is rather strong.”

“Yep.” Crowley kicked his feet up. “Drink up, angel. There’ll be food along in a minute and then we can head to the springs while the humans are still unpacking and sorting out whose treasure is what.”

As he spoke, the girl came over with the iron pot, her hand wrapped in thick fabric to protect her from the heat. She set a trivet on the table and put the pot down, then hurried back to get bowls. Crowley waited for her to serve them, and then gestured at her with a word, and she ducked her head, hurrying away.

“What are you saying to her?” Aziraphale asked.

“Just told her to get some clean clothes out for us. She can eat when we’re finished here.” Crowley smirked. “You’ll love this porridge, angel. It’s got eggs cooked in it.”

The porridge did smell rather tempting. It had been a few days since Aziraphale had last had a hot meal, and he could only be expected to withstand so much. He tucked in with an appreciative moan, nodding when Crowley asked if he liked it. And really, this didn’t seem that different than sitting across from him in Rome over oysters, or cheese and bread back in Wessex. Humans were lovely, really they were, but Aziraphale did miss having someone around with whom he didn’t need to pretend. 

Crowley seemed to feel the same; he was relaxed and a little drunk, gesturing grandly at the men who came to the door with his share of the spoils and offering them drinks. They declined, but in a good-natured sort of way. Crowley shot Aziraphale a grin. “They like me because I can tell a good story,” he confided. 

“Is that right?” Aziraphale blinked slowly. It was possible he was a little drunk himself.

“Oh yeah.” Crowley nodded wisely. He burped, paused, and then elaborated, “and it’s brilliant, angel, it really is. I tell them stories, and they all get inspired to go home and act on things they shouldn’t do. They’re nastier on raids, they beat their wives, they take out all their frustrations on each other, and I get a commendation without having to lift a finger!”

“That’s very bad,” said Aziraphale severely. He squinted at Crowley. “I bet you tangle their fishing nets too.”

“No, but that’s a good idea,” said Crowley, brightening.

Aziraphale opened his mouth in distress, then closed it again. Oh, he was being a bad angel. “I suppose you have to make up for saving poor slave girls from being ravished.”

“Ravished is a nice way to put it,” Crowley muttered. He was sliding further and further down in his chair, and he should have looked rather silly but somehow managed to seem loose and attractive. It was terribly unfair.

“So you tell stories and convince them that you’re a demigod,” said Aziraphale, noticing traces of melancholy chasing across Crowley’s face and wanting to avoid it. “What else is there to recommend this place?”

“Already told you about the fish,” Crowley muttered. “But don’t eat the shark. They bury it in the ground and then eat it after they dig it up. Smells like the alley behind a pub.”

Aziraphale made a face. “That sounds disgusting,” he said unhappily. “You didn’t tell me that when you were trying to convince me to come here.”

“‘S the whole point of a temptation, angel,” said Crowley. “You don’t tell them the bad bits.”

“You can’t tempt me! I’m an angel.” Aziraphale scowled. “Not very sporting, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugged. “I wasn’t lying about the salmon and dill sauce. I just said not to eat the shark.”

Aziraphale took a moment to puzzle that out, and decided it was fair. “Well, thank you for warning me,” he finally said.

“You’re welcome,” Crowley agreed solemnly, and Aziraphale toasted him when he raised his glass. They really were rather drunk, weren’t they? Oh dear.

Crowley poured him another, and it would be terribly rude to refuse. Besides, the stuff was really quite good after one got used to the burn. Aziraphale’s face felt unaccountably warm after just a few more when he tipped the jug and found it empty.

“Oh, bother it,” said Crowley amiably. “Hot spings, angel!” He leapt to his feet. “Come on, come on. It’s too sodding cold in this house. Girl!” he shouted, and switched to the Norsemen’s tongue to order her about. 

“I can’t understand you when you speak like that,” Aziraphale complained, rubbing his nose. “What are you saying to her?”

“I’m just telling her where we’re going in case anyone asks.” Crowley flapped his hand. “Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale got to his feet, rather unsteadier than he’d expected. “Oh, that does sound nice,” he agreed.

Crowley took the bundle of clothes the girl brought him and jerked his chin. “This way, angel.”

He hadn’t called Aziraphale that the last time they’d met, and Aziraphale took a moment to ponder it as he wobbled after Crowley down a well-worn path leading away from the town and the sea. “How far are these hot springs?” he called. The liquor might stave off the worst of the chill, but Aziraphale didn’t relish the thought of hiking without a cloak.

“Not far!” Crowley called back; he looked out of place here, red against the verdant green of the forest. They were in the trees now, the path gradually ascending. It was an easy enough walk if you hadn’t just finished a jug of hard liquor. Aziraphale tripped over a tree root and whined until Crowley fell back to walk beside him. “Not far at all, angel.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Aziraphale asked. It should be an insult, coming from a demon, but on Crowley’s lips it didn’t sound like that at all.

“What, can’t give you a nickname?” Crowley scratched his ear and looked up at a particularly imposing pine.

“A nickname,” Aziraphale repeated thoughtfully. He blinked. A nickname was something he hadn’t considered. Wasn’t that something reserved for friends? He stole a sideways look at Crowley. Crowley who had brought him here and fed him and shared his liquor and protected him from being discorporated by unruly humans or sold into slavery. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I suppose that’s alright then.”

Crowley shot him a grin.

The scent of pine was very nice after days of ocean spray and close proximity to unwashed humans. Aziraphale tipped his head back to better appreciate the birdsong, and smiled when Crowley caught his arm to steer him along. Yes, he supposed the two of them were friends after all, here in private. Pity they had to keep it secret, but that was the way things were. Crowley was a demon, after all, even if he was kind and thoughtful and pleasant to be around. If only—

But no. Aziraphale opened his eyes and sighed softly. The Fallen didn’t come back to the light. That wasn’t possible, he didn’t think, and certainly Crowley didn’t seem inclined to. Probably it would be rude to bring it up. 

Very well, then they would enjoy this friendship as a secret. Aziraphale reached out for Crowley’s hand, taking it as men used to back East and swinging it gently. The liquor might have had something to do with it, but he was feeling quite free and lighthearted.

Crowley glanced down at their joined hands for a moment, but said nothing. He simply looked away and then ahead, a small, crooked smile on his face.

Aziraphale gasped when the trees cleared to reveal the hot springs. Beautiful outcroppings of rock surrounded the series of pools, steam rising invitingly from every one. People had clearly been coming here for ages; rough stone was worn smooth by the passage of so many feet, and large rocks had been arranged around the pools as seating for bathers or places to set down clothing. There were four or five pools that Aziraphale could see, ranging in size from too small for a child to large enough that ten grown men could sit comfortably. He peered into the nearest one, delighted to discover that it was so clear he could see the bottom. 

“What do you think?” asked Crowley, watching Aziraphale admire the clearing with his hands on his hips.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Aziraphale beamed at him. “This place is shared by the whole village?”

“Not the thralls usually, but yeah. Gets crowded after the workday,” Crowley said sagely. “I like to come in the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep, usually, but since they’re all preparing to feast at the jarl’s house, I thought we should pop in now and take advantage.”

“Were we invited to the feast?” Aziraphale inquired carefully.

Crowley smirked. “I am, yeah. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have a seat too. The jarl likes me,” he added. “Thinks I’m lucky.”

“And in return for his favor I’m sure you use him to enact your diabolical will,” said Aziraphale, sighing. It was such a shame Crowley was actually good at being a demon.

“Well, yeah.” Crowley shrugged. He started unlacing his leather tunic. “Right. Might as well take a dip since we’re here.”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale busied himself with getting undressed. It felt nice to be out of his robe; he’d worn it for several days now, and his corporation did sweat even if he managed to avoid the most obvious unpleasantries of being human.

A cool breeze tickled his skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake, and he rubbed his arms briskly, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for Crowley to finish fighting with his leggings. It really shouldn’t be taking that long, he thought uncharitably. If only he didn’t wear them so tight.

“Ha!” said Crowley triumphantly, flinging his leggings away and sauntering over as though Aziraphale hadn’t just watched him hop around like a fool with his backside hanging out. “What are you waiting for? Get in!”

So Aziraphale followed him into the large spring, sighing with pleasure at the heat of the water. It smelled a bit like eggs, but no matter; there were worse things. It felt simply exquisite. “Oh, this is wonderful,” he sighed happily, wiggling so he could scratch his back on a bit of rock. There was a spot just between his wings that it hit perfectly, and the relief was enough to make him groan.

Crowley gave him a strange look, then looked harder and snorted. “You need to preen those,” he said. “You’re about to molt.”

Aziraphale pulled a face. He could hardly be bothered with his wings most of the time; there were too many other things to do, and it wasn’t as though he looked unkempt to the humans. Really, who else paid attention to that sort of thing but Crowley? “I’ll take care of it,” he said anyway, to placate Crowley.

“Liar,” Crowley proclaimed cheerfully. “You’ll leave them until they itch and then make a mess of them and the next time I’ll see you they’ll be in a state. Honestly, Aziraphale, I don’t know how you stand it.”

Aziraphale shrugged. Crowley’s wings were always sleek and immaculately groomed, gleaming black when Aziraphale looked past the particles of the world that normally obscured them. For a moment he considered asking Crowley for help grooming his wings, and then he stopped, feeling very embarrassed. That would be terribly forward, even if they were secretly friends.

Crowley sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Oh, turn around already,” he snapped, sounding put out about it. “Otherwise you’re going to shed all over my house, and I won’t have it, angel. I really won’t.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, blushing. “Oh, are you certain? I do hate to be a bother.” He glanced at Crowley, biting his lip.

Crowley scoffed. “Just turn around. It won’t take long.”

Aziraphale sighed and turned to give Crowley his back, resting his elbows on a shelf of rock that had been worn smooth by centuries of Norse backsides. With another, deeper sigh, he let his wings unfurl on this plane, shaking them out a little as the tingle from transferring into another plane of existence wore off.

“There,” said Crowley, as though this was perfectly normal, and began sorting through Aziraphale’s feathers. He started on the primaries, carefully running his fingers along them to sort out any unruly barbs. “You ever oil these?” he asked casually.

“No.” Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder. 

“It shows.” Crowley shook his head, making Aziraphale’s wing twitch when he stroked from the base of the primaries to the outer edge. “And you’ve got a clotted blood feather too, what is that? This is just sad. I have to pluck it.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Oh, but they always itch terribly when they come in,” he groused.

“Too bad.” There was a moment of pressure, and then Crowley _yanked._ Aziraphale howled, the sound echoing in the clearing.

“ _Warn me_ next time!” Aziraphale hissed.

“I did,” said Crowley, completely unapologetic. “Don’t let it get so bad and I won’t have to take care of it. Never see me with a malformed blood feather.”

Aziraphale glared at him.

Crowley ignored him and moved quickly to check the other wing. “Well, this one’s alright,” he said cheerfully, and rubbed at the delicate skin under the secondaries as an apology.

It would be nice if Aziraphale could say he took some time to forgive Crowley for unceremoniously pulling out one of his feathers, but the truth was that having someone preen his wings for him felt too wonderful for him to hold a grudge. Besides, the pain was already easing from the site of the plucked feather, and he had to admit it was a relief not to worry about bleeding every time he stretched his wings.

“You know, they’d be quite handsome if you took proper care of them,” Crowley remarked as he did something wonderful to the pin feathers right at the place where Aziraphale’s wings met his back.

“Hm?” Aziraphale picked his head up. He’d started to doze between the heat of the water and the soothing repetitive motions of Crowley’s hands in his feathers.

“Your wings,” Crowley said. “They’re nice when you preen them properly.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale blinked, slow and stupid and very content. “I’ve always thought yours very lovely as well.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley mumbled.

“No, they’re beautiful,” Aziraphale insisted. “They’re like—like a crow.” Something occurred to him. “Is that why you changed your name to Crowley?”

“Nope,” said Crowley, but he was smiling; Aziraphale could hear it in his voice.

“Well, it would have been fitting,” he decided. “They’re a bit like you, don’t you think?”

“They what?” Crowley craned his neck specifically to give Aziraphale a look that conveyed how ridiculous he thought he was being.

“Well, they’re clever and quick,” said Aziraphale, huffing because it wasn’t ridiculous at all. “They have a reputation for being terrible, but they aren't so bad, really.”

“Who thinks crows are terrible?” Crowley demanded. “People here don’t think they’re terrible.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned. “I’m thinking of somewhere else. The point is that they’re _not_ terrible. And they have black wings.”

“That’s your point,” Crowley repeated flatly.

“Yes.” Aziraphale stuck out his wing imperiously. “Scratch that, would you? I can never reach.”

Crowley sighed, but scratched obligingly at the tertiaries where Aziraphale was ruffling them.

Aziraphale let out a small, contented noise. And then he remembered his manners. “Did you want me to see to yours?” he asked politely, arching his back just a little when Crowley’s fingers twitched against a good spot.

“Me? Nah.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Just sorted them out about a week ago.”

They molted on the same schedule. Aziraphale found the notion oddly pleasing. Perhaps it was because they were both so much of the Earth, despite their respective origins. Regardless of the reason, it suited him to have this thing in common with Crowley. “Well, if you’re certain. Though it’s so nice to have a friend to preen with.”

Crowley paused. “Are we friends then?” he asked cautiously.

Ridiculous creature. He still had his hands on Aziraphale’s wings! “Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said impatiently. “Although we really shouldn’t flaunt it. I doubt either of our sides would like it very much.”

“No,” Crowley agreed in a strange voice. “Probably not.”

“Oh, and that reminds me,” said Aziraphale, pleased at his own cleverness. “I thought of a perfectly reasonable explanation in case anyone asks why we’re spending time together here.”

“Did you?” There was an ironic edge to Crowley’s voice now.

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale wiggled happily. “If my side asks, I’ll say you brought me here to tempt me over to your side!”

“What?” Crowley drew his hands back, which was terrible and not at all what Aziraphale intended.

“What, you don’t think it’s good?” He turned, blinking in confusion, and saw that Crowley had backed up several paces. They faced each other across the spring, waist deep in hot water.

Crowley had gone quite still. “Yeah, it’s good,” he said, nodding. “Clever, that. And I can just tempt the jarl into another raid to make up for you getting away when it’s time. Right.”

“Right,” Aziraphale agreed, wondering why Crowley didn’t seem enthusiastic about it. Really, it was a perfect excuse for them to stay together for a bit.

“And you don’t just smite me and leave because...?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, because I can do good work here under your nose,” he explained. “Counter your demonic influence on this place.”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Okay.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Is...is that alright? You won’t get in trouble, will you?”

“Me? Nah.” Crowley pushed his hair back from his face. Little droplets of water dripped from the ends, drawing Aziraphale’s eye. “No, you’re right. It’s quite clever.”

Aziraphale nodded, smiling hopefully.

Crowley blinked at him, and for a moment, with his half-wet hair and his pale skin shining with water, he looked quite—well, he was almost—

There came the sound of voices from the trees. A group of men, from the sound, talking and laughing along the path as they came toward the springs.

“Put your wings away!” Crowley hissed frantically, and Aziraphale tucked them back into their usual pocket of existence moments before the men came into the clearing.

They paused, taking in the sight of Crowley and Aziraphale standing in the water. Then one of them—Bjorn with the sharp ax, Aziraphale realized—grinned broadly. His waggling eyebrows and sly tone required no translation.

Crowley flushed, looking annoyed, and snapped something. It got more snickering in response from several of the men, and one of them—a strapping blond with very wide shoulders—gave Aziraphale an appreciative once-over.

Aziraphale instinctively moved closer to Crowley, signaling to the group who he was with. That only made them grin more, but it seemed more good-natured than menacing. He glanced at Crowley as the men started to strip down, and found him tight-lipped with irritation.

“Come on,” he snapped. “I’m not staying here while they fart in the water and laugh about it.”

“They do that?” Aziraphale was appalled.

“Men all over do that,” said Crowley, climbing out of the pool. “Don’t you remember the baths in Rome?”

“I don’t remember that!”

“Well, lucky you.” Crowley picked up the bundle of clothes and handed Aziraphale some brown leather breeches and a white shirt. “Let’s go.”

Aziraphale dressed quickly, aware of several sets of eyes on him, and followed Crowley back down the path. It was late in the day, but the sun was still high in the sky. It wouldn’t set for several hours, ensuring that everyone could carry on with their work for some time. 

They didn’t speak on the walk back to Crowley’s house. Aziraphale felt unaccountably embarrassed, although he couldn’t precisely say why. He knew these people thought he and Crowley were lovers; he’d even helped perpetuate the notion, although it was laughable. Angels and demons didn’t even _do_ that.

Well, angels didn’t.

Aziraphale wasn’t actually sure whether demons did. Possibly for tempting. Possibly. He stole a look at Crowley, watching the way he walked, a confident saunter that seemed mostly hip, and the way his long hair caught in the breeze from the ocean. Oh, he could tempt someone, alright. 

He looked down, a bit flustered by the thought. It either didn’t suit or it suited far too well, and neither option was pleasant to dwell on for long.

When they got back to the house, the torches were already lit over at the jarl’s and people were milling about in preparation for the feast. Crowley dried his hair with a gesture and then gave Aziraphale a critical once-over. A snap of Crowley’s fingers had his breeches fitting more snugly and fading to the palest cream. A jerkin appeared, making Aziraphale grunt as it laced up his chest, and it was the same color, with lovely detailed stitching. He liked the wings, but he thought it best not to mention it to Crowley, as he got very tetchy about being called thoughtful. “I suppose we are going to a party,” he acknowledged.

“I’m showing you off,” said Crowley with a satisfied smile. “Hair like yours is rare even here, and besides, they’ve been at me to take a wife since I got here.”

“A wife?” Aziraphale was puzzled. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Oh, you’re here to explain my lack of interest,” said Crowley cheerfully. “If I explain I’ve been holding out because the gods sent me a vision of you, then they’ll all accept that and stay off my back. And the jarl’s wife will be pleased. I think she’s a bit worried I’ll have sons and try to overthrow her husband.”

That made Aziraphale snort. “As though we would want to rule over humans!”

“I know, right?” Crowley grinned. “But they can’t help it, can they? Small, petty things, after all.”

“They’re wonderful,” Aziraphale sighed.

“Can be. And they can also be monstrous. Got to take the good with the bad, I suppose.” Crowley shrugged philosophically.

Aziraphale just nodded, watching Crowley twist his hair into a series of elaborate braids. He didn’t appear to be using magic to do it, and that impressed Aziraphale a great deal.

When Crowley had primped enough to satisfy his vanity, he declared it time to leave. So they stepped out with a word to the girl and joined the throngs of people making their way to the grand-looking hall at the top of a gentle hill. It was high enough to oversee the village, but not so imposing as some of the fortresses Aziraphale remembered from back in the East. 

Crowley chatted with a group that they’d fallen into step with, consisting of a man, two women, and a gaggle of children. The oldest, a young teenager, peered openly at Aziraphale. Crowley followed the curious look and grinned, gesturing at Aziraphale grandly and saying something. When Aziraphale caught his eye, he winked.

One of the two women said something and smiled. Aziraphale smiled back out of habit as Crowley leaned over and muttered, “she’s asking if you do anything to get your hair so light. I told her you were like me, so she says you must be lucky, to be blessed with it.”

Aziraphale’s smile warmed as he nodded his thanks to her. “Tell her she’s kind to say so.”

Crowley passed along the message and coughed when she responded in a teasing lilt.

Aziraphale smirked. “What did she say now?”

Crowley cleared his throat. “That it’s a pity we can’t have any babies, because she’s sure they’d be lovely.”

Aziraphale was startled into laughter. “So this is acceptable here? For men to be open like this?”

“Oh, it’s alright for me, as long as they think I’m the one putting it in,” said Crowley airily. “You’re a thrall, which means no one expects anything manly from you.”

“But I am a man,” Aziraphale said. “Or—man-shaped.”

“It’s rather like Greece or Rome,” Crowley told him.

“Ah.” Aziraphale looked around curiously. “They’re going to seat me with the women, aren’t they?”

“Probably. For all intents and purposes, it’s easiest for them to treat you like my wife.” Crowley wasn’t looking at him.

“Well, that’s alright.” Aziraphale nodded. “Better to be a wife than a servant.”

“That’s what I thought!” Crowley grinned. 

They were separated as soon as they entered the jarl’s hall, the kind lady taking Aziraphale’s arm to prevent him from following the men to their table. The jarl and the other nobles had a table to themselves, with their wives present, but otherwise the men had their side of the hall and the women had theirs. The lady had begun to lead Aziraphale toward the women’s side when an older man stopped her with a rough word.

She opened her mouth to explain, but an old woman got to her feet and made shooing motions at Aziraphale. This was all very confusing; he couldn’t speak the language and he didn’t know who was right in terms of etiquette and he very much wanted Crowley to come rescue him.

And there he was, dark and sleek as he sauntered up to the man’s side and coolly asked what the problem was (or so Aziraphale assumed). He listened for a moment, shrugged, and took hold of Aziraphale’s sleeve to pull him back to the men’s side of the hall.

Aziraphale shot the kind lady an apologetic glance. “So I take it I’m not your wife after all?”

Crowley snorted. “The jarl likes me. That doesn’t mean everyone does, and that one over there would rather hang than see my apparently male concubine sitting with his wife.”

“Surely they can’t think that I’d—” The very thought was laughable. Aziraphale cultivated a particular impression and he knew it.

“They don’t. It was a chance to insult me,” spat Crowley bitterly. “You’re not going to be well-received here at this table.”

Aziraphale winced. “I’m sorry, Crowley.” 

“For what? It could be worse, you know. Just don’t make eye contact with anyone. Concentrate on your food, that should be easy.”

Aziraphale endeavored to do as Crowley asked, although he didn’t care for the sidelong glances and muttered comments from the men at the table, or the way they refused to sit too close and jerked away if they thought they might touch him. He could say that he enjoyed the food, so that was alright. It was tolerable, because Crowley stayed close and translated the jarl’s speech in a low mutter next to Aziraphale’s ear. With commentary. He also cheerfully described the inner workings of the community; who held grudges, who was plotting against whom, who lusted after their neighbors’ spouses. Aziraphale should have disapproved, but he was too charmed by Crowley’s commentary.

He was passed over when the platters of food came around for the next course, but Crowley procured the choicest bits for him, so he didn’t mind so much. A few men that he recognized from the spring leered at him when he accidentally made eye contact. He raised an imperious eyebrow, carefully considering some of their more obvious shortcomings and inspiring a bit of guilt. They looked away first and he went back to his meal.

“Do you like it?” asked Crowley in a low voice, leaning close.

“I do,” Aziraphale said with a warm smile. “You were right about these oysters, they’re simply scrumptious!”

“Told you.” Crowley looked pleased. “Have some of the bread when it comes around. You’ll like it.”

“Oh, the dark bread?” asked Aziraphale, eyeing a platter that was making its way toward them.

“That’s the one. Don’t be shy with the butter.”

“I never am.” Aziraphale smiled warmly. He could ignore any human rudeness as long as he had Crowley here next to him.

He actually moaned when he took a bite of the bread; it was thick and dense, still warm from the oven, with a crisp crust and a rich, nutty flavor. And the butter! Herbs were chopped into it, adding a delightful flavor to the already decadent bread. He closed his eyes to better take in all the details, and when he opened them, the first thing he saw was the indulgent look on Crowley’s face.

“Did you want to be left alone with that?” he asked.

“No, but—is there another loaf?” Aziraphale gave him his most winning expression.

One of the men at the table laughed, joined after a moment by several others. One of them elbowed Crowley good-naturedly in the ribs, prompting some eye-rolling and a bit of banter. Crowley just shook his head and grabbed another slice of bread for Aziraphale from a passing tray.

“You simply must tell me,” said Aziraphale, accepting the offering graciously. 

“They think I spoil you,” Crowley said. “Apparently it’s normal. New concubine and all.”

“I see.” Aziraphale smiled mischievously. “Should I flirt?”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley muttered. “They’re laughing enough as it is, angel.”

“Let them,” said Aziraphale softly. “I don’t care at all what they think, you know. I’m only glad we have an excuse to visit for so long.”

Crowley blinked at him, lips parting. And then a snippet of conversation drew him away, leaving Aziraphale to his wonderful bread.

The feast continued late, giving Aziraphale a chance to observe Crowley with the other men. At one point he was called upon to tell a story, which he did, leaving Aziraphale alone at the table (albeit with a large pile of oysters). Even without understanding the words, Aziraphale could feel the power Crowley imbued them with. He weaved emotions into sound and cast them out like nets over the gathered crowd. Envy, lust, genuine longing, all of them washed over Aziraphale like gentle waves, affecting the humans listening raptly to Crowley’s voice. Even though he ought to disapprove, Aziraphale could appreciate good craftsmanship, and this was brilliant. They even forgot to hold Aziraphale on contempt, so enthralled were they.

When the story ended, someone passed Crowley a cup and he drained it, smashing it on the floor to a roar of approval. He flashed Aziraphale a cocky grin as he sat back down, and Aziraphale was helpless to do anything but beam at him. 

“Well done,” he gushed.

“Oh shush,” Crowley mumbled, waving his hand. “You could do the same if you put your mind to it.”

“But I didn’t think of it,” Aziraphale told him honestly. “You came up with the idea of mass influence. It’s quite brilliant, Crowley. I hope they commend you.”

“Shouldn’t you be thwarting me?” Crowley looked amused now.

“I haven’t finished eating.” Aziraphale primly popped an oyster in his mouth.

Crowley snorted and got Aziraphale another slice of bread. By the time they wobbled back to Crowley’s house, giggling and drunk, Aziraphale was stuffed fuller than the game birds which had come around the table for the fourth course. He clung to Crowley’s sleeve to stay upright.

“Oh, what shall we do now?” he asked happily after they took their boots off and shut the door. 

Crowley yawned. “Sleep, probably,” he said, nodding to the lump on the floor near the fire. “She’s got the warmest spot in the house. Nowhere for you to sit up reading, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s face fell. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Come on. It’s better in a proper bed than crammed in together on a ship,” said Crowley encouragingly.

Aziraphale had his doubts, but wandering on his own would be very boring indeed, so he followed Crowley up the stairs to the sleeping loft. It was well-appointed, with furs and soft blankets on the bed and pillows stuffed thick with feathers. “Well, this is handsome,” he said politely.

“Thanks.” Crowley snapped his fingers and lit all the candles before he flopped face-first onto the bed and spread all his limbs like a sea star. “Mmph,” he added from the depths of the pillow.

Aziraphale bit back a smile. “Was that an invitation?”

Crowley rolled to the side. “Yeah, you try it.”

So Aziraphale threw himself onto the bed and grinned when it enveloped him in a soft embrace. “Oh, this is much nicer than we had at the priory,” he agreed.

“Surprised you didn’t just fix yours up,” Crowley remarked, propping himself on an elbow to watch Aziraphale wiggle into place.

“That wouldn’t be sporting,” Aziraphale said simply.

“Sporting.” Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous, angel.”

“I am not.” Aziraphale stretched out his arms and sighed happily when his fingers brushed Crowley’s shoulder. “I simply don’t believe in taking every shortcut available.”

“Your loss.” Crowley’s hair slid distractingly over his shoulder. “Why make things harder on yourself?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why, to feel closer to them,” he said in surprise. “And sometimes it’s fun.”

“Fun,” Crowley repeated.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale peered at him. He realized he had no idea what Crowley liked to do when he wasn’t tempting humans or spending time with Aziraphale. “Don’t you like to have fun?”

“Of course I do! But not by mucking around in the dirt playing at being a human.” Crowley shook his head. “If I wanted to roll in filth, I’d go back to Hell.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “Is it terrible there?” he asked softly. He’d always wondered, but it wasn’t the sort of question one asked over dinner. Here, though, in the low flickering candlelight, he rather felt as though they could talk about anything.

Crowley swallowed. “It’s dark,” he said. “Grubby and grimy. Nothing’s shiny, nothing’s bright. Not like Heaven.” He looked at Aziraphale and said, “not like you.”

Aziraphale blushed, looking down. “I’m sorry if it upsets you,” he murmured. “Truly I am, Crowley. Honestly, I think you’re far too good for—”

Crowley’s hand was on his lips, warm and smelling of ash. “Don’t,” he whispered urgently. “That’s too much like asking questions, angel. It’s not worth it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he drew in a quick breath that tasted like Crowley. “You’re too kind,” he said shakily when Crowley finally took his hand away. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Crowley looked unnerved and clenched his hand into a fist. “I’m not good,” he said softly.

“You can be,” Aziraphale insisted. He wanted to reach out and cover Crowley’s hand with his own, but something held him back.

Crowley shook his head. “Nah. I’m a demon, remember? Rotten to my core.”

“I wouldn’t like you if you were as bad as all that,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley looked at him, startled. “Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “I don’t have many friends, Crowley,” he said. “I’ll not have you insult one of my best ones.”

Crowley’s lips parted, but all that came out were a few incoherent noises.

Aziraphale patted his shoulder reassuringly and then wiggled so that he was under the blankets. “This really is delightfully warm,” he said. “I think I will sleep after all.”

“Okay,” Crowley croaked. “Right. Yeah. Me too.”

So Aziraphale closed his eyes, listening to the soft sound of Crowley’s breathing. It was a blessing, he thought, that he could spend so much time uninterrupted with such a fine friend as Crowley. Really, he must be the luckiest angel.


	2. Chapter 2

After the feast, life went back to normal in the village. People returned to their farms, Crowley sowed seeds of discord, Aziraphale stopped a nasty illness before it could take out the flocks of hardy little sheep that kept the village in wool and meat, and the humans carried on being human. 

Crowley flitted in and out, although he was never gone too long. He liked walking around the village with Aziraphale, showing him what was where and introducing him to people who could look after him. Aziraphale would bristle at that, but the customs here were so different from what he was used to, and his position in this society so tenuous, that he knew it was necessary. The kind lady from the feast invited him on her morning trips to the market with the unnamed girl, so he had companions for that, even if they couldn’t speak. He did manage to learn that her name was Ylva, although that was the extent of their understanding.

And the nights belonged to him and Crowley; they dined together without fail, and Crowley enjoyed the illuminations in Aziraphale’s beloved books. While the girl washed dishes, they sat close to the fire, admiring the fine artistry of the illustrations. Aziraphale should, perhaps, have felt guilty for keeping the books to himself rather than sharing their contents with the townspeople, but Crowley scoffed at the very suggestion, and so the books remained for their eyes alone. 

It was...easy, for lack of a better word. If they were truly human, Aziraphale could readily imagine spending the rest of his natural life just like this, with Crowley beside him like a shadow. He turned to the demon without thinking, pointing out a new hair comb of iron and bone that would look striking in his red hair, or laughing as he allowed himself to be dressed as a proper Norseman in shades of white and cream, with just a touch of brilliant blue.

“Matches your eyes,” Crowley told him. “It’s called fashion, angel.”

And so the days slid into weeks, and Aziraphale settled into a steady orbit around Crowley. One would tempt, the other would bless, and life went on as usual. Aziraphale grew comfortable around the townspeople, even if the men did leer at him and call to him in a tone he understood as rude.

“Honestly, I don’t know what their problem is,” he sighed one night over a game of liubo. Crowley had revealed the set, brought with him from China, and Aziraphale was delighted to play with him over a few jugs of the Norse liquor. “As though sexual behavior has any effect on character!”

“At least some of them are bitter because they’re lusting after you themselves,” said Crowley idly; he tossed the jade dice and grinned at the number he rolled. 

Aziraphale frowned; Crowley, he had learned, was a notorious cheat when it came to dice. “You put that fish back and roll again,” he ordered.

Crowley rolled his eyes but didn’t protest, a sure sign that he had in fact been cheating. He rolled again and groaned, moving his piece to a less advantageous spot on the board.

Aziraphale sniffed and took a sip. “And I seriously doubt I inspire lust. I’m an angel, after all.”

That made Crowley laugh. “Are you really that clueless, angel?” He shook his head and handed the dice to Aziraphale. “Ylva would leave her husband for you in a heartbeat if she thought you were interested. They’re drawn to you. They can sense the divinity in you, even if they don’t understand it.”

“But there’s a difference,” said Aziraphale. He rolled a three and made a face. “Being drawn to me doesn’t have to entail lust.”

“Wanting gets confused,” said Crowley sagely, scowling as Aziraphale outpaced him on the board. He took a messy gulp of liquor and sighed. “There’s loads of different ways to want someone, but most humans just filter it through their bits and decide that whatever it is they’re feeling means they want to shag.”

“Always seemed a messy business,” Aziraphale remarked, frowning as Crowley obtained a fish after all. One more and he’d gain enough tokens to win the game.

“What, fornication? Yeah,” Crowley agreed. “Sweaty. Sticky. Bit smelly too, honestly.”

“Have you done it?” Aziraphale asked, overcome by curiosity. He’d never have had the nerve to ask sober, but they’d been steadily drinking for a few hours, and the girl was nowhere to be found.

“Nah.” Crowley shook his head. “But I’ve watched enough of it to know.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“Not for fun!” Crowley hastened to say. “Part of the job, isn’t it, making sure they’re actually led into temptation and don’t resist last minute.”

“I’m sure,” said Aziraphale soothingly.

“Still not sure what makes it so fun,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, neither am I, but that’s because I don’t feel lust,” said Aziraphale primly; he took another sip of the liquor. And then another. His lips were starting to tingle. “Do you?”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “Do I what?”

“Lust,” said Aziraphale. “Covet. Want. _Crave._ Is that a thing you do?”

Crowley closed his mouth, then opened it again. A strangled sort of noise came out of him, making him sound a bit like a disgruntled sheep Aziraphale had watched being herded last week.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t—that’s—what the Heaven do you care about it?” Crowley finally managed to demand. “That’s personal, that is!”

“So yes,” said Aziraphale, nodding. “I’ve always wondered what it felt like, you know.”

“You what?” Crowley goggled at him.

“Lust.” Aziraphale shrugged. “I enjoy so many other things humans do, so it seems strange not to understand an urge of theirs that drives so many of their decisions.”

“I—I mean, yeah, that makes sense.” Crowley sat up, squinting at Aziraphale as though he hadn’t quite seen him before.

Aziraphale smiled. “Pity there’s no one to practice with.”

“Ngh?” was what it sounded like Crowley said.

“Well,” Aziraphale amended, “not practice, exactly. Experiment.” Yes, that was more precise. 

“You want to experiment with lust?” Crowley asked stupidly.

Aziraphale shrugged noncommittally. “I just wonder sometimes. Don’t you ever wonder, Crowley? Or do you understand, since you can feel it?”

“I—” It was hard to tell in the firelight, but Crowley’s cheeks looked darker. “I understand some,” he mumbled.

“Oh?” Aziraphale was intrigued. “What does it feel like? Lusting after someone, I mean.” He leaned forward across the board, the game forgotten. 

Crowley took a large gulp of his liquor. “It’s, erm, distracting,” he said, swallowing. He scrunched up his eyebrows. “It’s—you notice everything about them. How they move; what their mouth does. You can’t think about anything but what you want to do to them.”

“Sounds overwhelming,” said Aziraphale sympathetically.

“I—yeah.” Crowley licked his lips and looked away. “A bit like how you can’t focus on a word I say when there’s smoked salmon on the table.”

“Only instead of thinking about how the salmon will taste, you’re thinking about—”

“How your mouth would taste, yeah.” Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale blinked.

A moment went by, and then Crowley’s hand flew to his mouth. “A general you,” he said from behind his hand. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley nodded, looking almost afraid. 

Aziraphale studied him. “Have you ever lusted after _me,_ Crowley?”

Crowley began to make those incoherent noises that he always made when he didn’t know how to answer a question. Which told Aziraphale everything, really.

He smiled. “That’s terribly convenient! You ought to show me.”

Crowley’s eyes were in danger of popping out. “You what?” he croaked. 

“Before I came with you I was living in a monastic order that warned constantly against the sins of the flesh. And now that I’m here in this village I’m constantly being berated for letting you have me. If I’m to be an object of scorn then let me deserve it!” His face felt quite warm, and it was possible that he was thinking of the disgusted little twist of Gabriel’s mouth when he saw Aziraphale eating something. 

“Angel,” whispered Crowley, and it felt like it meant something, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Of course not, you’re my friend.” Aziraphale smiled. “Really, I’m not sure how anyone could object to this more than anything else we’ve done. It’s not as though I’m going to Fall just from touching you, or I’d have done it by now.”

Crowley shook his head, wide-eyed. “You can’t be serious,” he whispered again. “Angel, you can’t.”

Aziraphale’s smile started to slip. “Did...did you not want to?” he asked hesitantly.

“I—” Crowley closed his eyes. “Look, it’s not about that. It’s...what if you don’t like it? What if it’s weird after?” He gave Aziraphale a beseeching look. “If you haven’t got many friends, then I haven’t got any. I don’t—”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale reached out, overcome with fondness. He took Crowley’s hand in his own and squeezed. “You’re so good to worry about me.”

“‘M not good,” Crowley muttered.

“You’re good to me,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Crowley was staring at their hands. “Are you really sure about this? I don’t—” he swallowed. “I don’t want you to have regrets.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “If I do, they’ll be my own. You’re so kind, Crowley, you’d only be doing as I asked. I want to know what the humans feel. I want to—” He stopped and blushed, stunned by his own boldness.

“You want to what?” Crowley sat up a bit straighter, looking intrigued. 

“I want to feel adored in the human way,” Aziraphale admitted; he was drunk, he could say what he liked. “You remember Heaven. It’s so...sterile and cold. I want to—oh, not pretend to be human, but to feel like they do. Do you see?”

“I think so.” Crowley squinted. “Better to understand them, right? Or is that just what you’ll tell the head office if they ask?”

Aziraphale bit his lip. If the head office asked, he’d have to spin a story about Crowley tempting him and him pretending to agree to it for the sake of showing the Almighty’s love. The truth was more along the lines of Aziraphale being both curious and a sensualist who had just discovered an opportunity for a new sensation. He acknowledged this about himself, but Heaven wouldn’t see it as the harmless thing he did. “I suppose I just want to,” he admitted, letting go of Crowley’s hand. “It must be good if they pursue it so intently.”

“Must be.” Crowley was staring at him. 

“How can it be any more transgressive than eating or drinking?” Aziraphale shrugged, taking another large swallow of liquor. He very much needed to remain a bit drunk for this.

“Suppose it can’t,” said Crowley cautiously.

“Do you want to?” Aziraphale asked him breathlessly. He set his cup down and tried to look winning. “Oh, please say you want to. I do.”

Crowley made an odd sort of honking noise. “Ah,” he finally managed. “I—yeah, alright.” He drained his cup and set it down. “We should probably put this away.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, reassembling the board and returning it to the corner where it was usually stored. “There. Let’s go upstairs.”

Crowley goggled. “Right.”

Aziraphale pushed to his feet, less steady than he would have preferred, but steady enough to haul Crowley up by the hand. He was a bit too enthusiastic, and wound up with a demon pulled tight against his chest.

“Oh,” breathed Crowley, looking surprised. “You’re a bit stronger than you look, angel.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, who had worked hard to cultivate a soft and approachable image. “Should we kiss, do you think?”

This question reduced Crowley to several incoherent noises that seemed positive. Aziraphale took it as a yes and leaned forward, pursing his lips like he’d seen humans do when they wanted a kiss.

It took Crowley a moment to calm down, but when he did, he pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s own. He retreated a moment later, blinking.

Aziraphale blinked too. “I think we’re supposed to move our mouths,” he said after a moment to consider. “They move when they do it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said stupidly. “Right. Okay.”

When Crowley kissed him again, he opened his mouth a little, moving his lips against Aziraphale’s, and it was nice. Bit wet, but Aziraphale had expected that.

“Did I do it right?” asked Crowley. “I mean, did you like it?”

“I think so.” Aziraphale considered. “Maybe we ought to do it again to be sure.”

“Okay,” Crowley said again, and kissed him harder.

Now that had some appeals. It felt wonderfully out of control, and something went hot and tight in Aziraphale’s abdomen at the thought of Crowley wanting this from him. He recalled all the writhing, naked humans he’d seen crying out in ecstasy, and then imagined making Crowley do that, and oh, that was as delicious as a fresh pastry.

“We should take our clothes off,” he said when they broke the kiss. “I can kiss other parts of you too.”

“Oh lord,” Crowley muttered. “That’s—If we're gonna do that we should go upstairs.”

Aziraphale brightened. “You’re quite right,” he said. “Then we can lie down together while we touch.”

“Yeah,” came Crowley’s strangled response.

So they climbed the stairs, and Aziraphale sat on the bed to unlace his jerkin. “Do we need oil?” he asked suddenly. “The Greeks and Romans were always mad for oil.”

Crowley tripped over a spare shirt. “Uh,” he said intelligently, “I think we need oil, yeah. Unless you can make your—” he broke off, looking embarrassed.

Aziraphale scrunched up his lips thoughtfully, pulling his shirt over his head. “If we’re going to do this like humans, then we should actually do it like humans,” he decided, and a bottle of olive oil found itself (to its—and its owner’s—surprise) not in its previous spot in the south of Greece, but on a bedside table on the coast of what would someday be Sweden.

“There,” said Aziraphale, satisfied, and pushed his leggings down, wiggling until they were off his legs. “I wish the trousers weren’t so tight,” he said with a sigh. 

“They make your arse look good,” said Crowley, hopping around to get his own leggings off.

Aziraphale watched him for a moment, amused. “But at what cost?”

Crowley nearly fell over and righted himself against the wall. “You have no sense of fashion, angel.”

“Just now I want your clothes gone, Crowley,” Aziraphale told him loftily. “Oh, this is going to be exciting. I never use my cock for anything.” He looked down at it and smiled at the way it was beginning to stiffen and fill. Such a strange feeling, but he thought he might like it. He had the oddest urge to rub it on something. “Does yours feel like this when it gets hard?”

“Of course it does. Everyone’s does.” Crowley flopped down next to him, finally rid of his too-tight leggings. He craned his neck to study Aziraphale’s cock and said, “it looks nice,” in a soft voice.

Aziraphale smiled. “You like it?” he asked. “I tried to make it like they did on all those Greek statues. Well-proportioned, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley quietly, “I know.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley’s face and thought, quite out of nowhere, that he’d rather like to rub his cock on it. The thought made him blink, stunned. “I think I just felt lust!” he told Crowley excitedly. “I was looking at you, and I wanted to do things.”

Crowley gaped at him. “I—like what?”

And that made Aziraphale blush. “Er,” he hedged, “nothing in particular.”

Crowley squinted at him suspiciously. “No, you’ve got to say. I’ve gone and admitted to feeling it, so you’ve got to as well.”

“You never said anything specific!” Aziraphale protested.

“Well, one of us has to tell the other what we want to do!” Crowley looked exasperated.

“I thought we were going to put your cock up my bum,” said Aziraphale blankly. “Didn’t we agree?”

Crowley made a series of overwhelmed noises and fell onto his back in apparent dismay.

“That will do nicely,” Aziraphale said, and swung a leg over his hips to straddle him. 

Crowley stared up at him, lips parting. His hair was spilled out on the pillow beneath him like fire, and once again Aziraphale found him so beautiful it made him ache.

So he decided to say it. “Crowley, you’re lovely.”

That made him squirm. “Oh, shut up,” he mumbled. His cock rubbed against Aziraphale’s thigh, and that was very nice, in a strange sort of way.

“I like that,” Aziraphale told him softly, shifting so that they rubbed together a bit more. “Goodness, this is a lot, isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded with a little helpless noise.

Aziraphale smiled. “Here,” he said, reaching for the oil. “I suppose we should start.”

Crowley swallowed with an audible click. “Angel,” he croaked, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it in.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale blinked down at him.

Crowley bit his lip. “I mean I—that is—” He swallowed again. “Oh, bless it, I can’t promise I won’t pop off the minute I try.”

“Well, that’s very flattering, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “but I confess I was really looking forward to trying this. Is there anything for it?”

Crowley looked wretched. “Suppose I could come first,” he mumbled. “Then I could—I dunno, do something you liked until it gets hard again.”

Aziraphale considered. “That’s very sensible,” he decided. “Alright. How should I make you come?”

“Er, however you like.” Crowley gulped.

Aziraphale considered. “What would _you_ like, Crowley?” he asked softly. 

Crowley’s eyes were very wide in the dim light. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Just—kiss me again?”

So Aziraphale did, setting the oil aside to cup Crowley’s face between his hands. It was better this way; he could tip Crowley’s face up to better claim his mouth, and they both moaned when tongues were introduced. Aziraphale couldn’t be sure who’d first brought them into the proceedings, but it was quite clever. From there he could kiss all the other parts of Crowley that appealed to him—his sharp cheekbones, his sweet mouth, the tip of his nose and the tender place below his ear that made him tremble.

Crowley’s hips moved restlessly under Aziraphale, rubbing his cock against Aziraphale’s thigh. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it, which was fine, since Aziraphale much preferred his attention on their kissing anyway.

It was when Crowley’s cock twitched noticeably that Aziraphale paused in sucking kisses to Crowley’s neck to whisper, “you should rub it against mine.”

“What?” Crowley’s eyes were closed and his thin chest was heaving. It really was too delightful to see him like this.

“Here.” Aziraphale shifted, getting their cocks more into alignment. Seemed silly, that they hadn’t introduced them before. “Like this.” And he rolled his hips, thrusting his cock against Crowley’s.

They slid together, slick at the tips, and Crowley made a noise that raised the hairs on Aziraphale’s arms. “Angel,” he gasped, jerking like a landed fish. “ _Fuck,_ that’s good, do it again, _please_ do it again.”

Aziraphale rolled his hips again, letting out a low pleased sound at the way it sent lightning through his veins. Crowley tossed his head beneath him, beautiful and needing, and when Aziraphale did it again he went a bit frantic. 

“Gonna—Aziraphale— _shit!_ ” Crowley bit off his words as he began to thrust jerkily against Aziraphale. It was quick, almost rabbit-like, and after about a minute he let out a high little squeak and came all over the pair of them.

“Oh!” Aziraphale peered down in fascination. “I’ve never actually seen that part before. Did it feel nice?”

Crowley let out a muzzy sound and flapped a hand weakly.

Aziraphale reached out and ran a finger through the mess. It was roughly the consistency of egg white, with a similar appearance and a smoky, musky smell. He wondered if that was all semen, or just Crowley’s. It didn’t burn. He’d been a little afraid it might.

But since it didn’t...

The noise Crowley made when he sucked his finger clean made Aziraphale shake. “Sweet God above,” Crowley breathed. “Your fucking mouth, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a deliberately innocent look and smeared a bit of semen across his lower lip. Being saucy was a sure way to deprive Crowley of his ability to speak, and that felt a bit like winning.

Crowley moaned despairingly and went limp under him.

“How long does it take you to get hard again?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley grunted and shrugged. “Dunno. Not too long if you keep doing that.”

“What, this?” Aziraphale swiped another finger through Crowley’s spend and popped it into his mouth. “You like watching me eat this? Shall I tell you how good it tastes? Does it make you think about fucking my mouth?”

Crowley squeaked.

Aziraphale smiled. Sex was proving to be extremely diverting. “I suppose the humans already think I let you do that,” he mused. “Or do they think you force me? I remember several very naughty vases from Greece showing men holding other men’s heads while they used their mouths. Should we try?”

Crowley made a garbled sort of sound, eyes wide.

“Do you like it when I talk to you like this?” Aziraphale’s smile widened. There was power in this, in making the demon beneath him moan and shake, and he felt like the most indulgent, benevolent creature in the face of it. He’d enjoyed watching Crowley come. He wanted to see how much pleasure he could bring him now.

Crowley swallowed, then slowly nodded.

“Then I shall simply have to keep doing it,” Aziraphale decided. “Now on the subject of cocks and mouths, I feel compelled to confess that earlier I was rather taken with the notion of putting mine close to yours.”

“My—what?” Crowley frowned. “I’m confused. My what with your what?”

“Oh! Was I not being clear? My cock and your mouth.”

“Oh,” managed Crowley, who looked quite in danger of floating away if Aziraphale crawled off him.

“You have rather pretty lips, after all.” Aziraphale traced Crowley’s lower lip with the same finger he’d sucked a moment ago, and that made Crowley groan and take it into his mouth. It was shameless and depraved, and Aziraphale could watch him suck on it all day. “So very pretty,” he whispered.

Crowley whined, reaching up to take Aziraphale’s wrist. “Get the oil, angel,” he whispered. “I’ll be ready for it shortly.”

Aziraphale smiled and reached for it with his free hand. “Here,” he said, offering it to Crowley. “How does one prepare?”

“Like this,” Crowley said roughly, and took it, pouring some into his hand. It dripped down his fingers, gleaming in the candlelight. “Can I put one inside you?”

“Ooh, yes.” Aziraphale shifted, trying to present his arse for easy access. “Can you reach, or should I move?”

“Stay like this,” Crowley told him. “I’ve got it.” The first touch of his fingers was strange; nothing had ever touched Aziraphale there before, and it was sensitive. At first it seemed like a rather delicious tickle, slick fingers sliding against his hole, but then Crowley pressed the tip of one finger inside, and it changed abruptly.

“ _Oh,_ ” he breathed. “Oh, I like that.”

“Yeah?” Crowley stared up at him, enraptured. He pushed a little deeper, and it made Aziraphale groan softly. “This is okay?”

“More than okay,” Aziraphale moaned. “Just perfect.” He rocked back, pushing Crowley’s finger in deeper, and gasped when it brushed against a spot which felt absolutely delicious. “Oh, do that again, Crowley! Touch me there again!”

“Where?” Crowley demanded, but was already wiggling his finger trying to find that sweet spot again. “Aziraphale, what—?”

But he never finished the question, because he located it again and made Aziraphale shout for how lovely it was. Something in his expression went sharp and hungry, and then he was rubbing it over and over, drawing ecstatic cries from Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, riding those long, graceful fingers, “something’s happening, something’s building—”

“Not yet,” growled Crowley, kissing him hard and pulling his finger out. Aziraphale wanted to weep from the loss, but then there were hands on his hips, and something hot and blunt was pressing against his hole, and then with a stretch and a wail of pleasure Crowley was inside, thick and slippery and perfect.

“Oh _fuck,_ ” Aziraphale groaned, leaning back to seat himself properly.

“I cheated,” Crowley gasped, chest heaving. “Sorry, angel, I cheated. We didn’t need the oil. I just couldn’t wait.”

“It’s fine,” Aziraphale panted. He shut his eyes tightly, focusing on the intensity of the stretch. “That feels...”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale nodded, biting his lip. He took a deep, shaky breath. “And now, according to these human laws, I’ve debased myself for you.” He opened his eyes and looked down. “I’ve submitted.”

Crowley gulped. “They’re idiots,” he rasped. “There’s nothing shameful about this, angel. You couldn’t debase yourself if you tried.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “So you don’t feel particularly dominant right now? You’ve put your cock in me. Aren’t you supposed to feel like a man?”

“I’m not a man,” Crowley said softly.

“No, I suppose not.” Aziraphale considered, and then clenched his arse.

Crowley choked on his tongue.

“I don’t feel terribly submissive either,” Aziraphale remarked.

Crowley made a noise that could have been agreement, but it was difficult to be certain.

Aziraphale began to move, rolling his hips to ensure Crowley’s cock rubbed that wonderful spot inside him again. “I think,” he said breathlessly, “that there’s a great deal of nuance they’re missing here. Surely there are other factors besides position in play when one considers power dynamics. Don’t you think?”

Crowley nodded mindlessly, eyes falling shut.

Aziraphale smiled. “In fact, I think it quite likely that I could pin your hands and use you for my pleasure if I wanted to do so. How could anyone call that submission?”

“Shit,” breathed Crowley, and he opened his eyes to stare pitifully up at Aziraphale. Slowly, without blinking, he raised his hands above his head and left them there.

Aziraphale’s breath caught. “Crowley—”

Crowley nodded once, licking his lips nervously.

Aziraphale felt the atmosphere shift subtly; he couldn’t pinpoint what felt different, exactly, only that it did. If he spoke the fragile thing between them would shatter, so he kept silent as he leaned forward cautiously and wrapped his hands around Crowley’s wrists. He looked down at Crowley. Checking.

Crowley nodded again, docile under him. 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to lick his lips. His heart was pounding. He didn’t understand what was happening here, but it was momentous. Crowley was so dear, looking up at him with those wide yellow eyes, and Aziraphale wanted to ruin him with love.

He began to move again, with intent this time.

They didn’t speak, letting the thing between them swell and grow. Crowley’s eyes kept fluttering shut, but he always forced them open again, better to watch Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale let himself voice every sensation, every wonderful, glorious feeling Crowley’s cock brought him. Not with words, but with sighs and grunts and occasionally gasping cries. It was perfect. He could dine on this feeling forever.

“Angel,” Crowley finally gasped after what felt like a delicious eternity, “angel, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” panted Aziraphale. “Oh, not yet, I’m not ready.”

Crowley moaned like he was in pain, closing his eyes tightly. “Shit,” he breathed, biting his lip. “I’ll try. Aziraphale, I’ll try.”

“You can do it,” Aziraphale whispered; he was bouncing properly on Crowley’s cock now, having mastered the angle and rise necessary to sustain it without slipping out. “I know you can, Crowley. For me.”

Crowley groaned again, shaking his head wordlessly. He looked utterly ruined, just as Aziraphale wanted him. 

“Just a little longer,” Aziraphale whispered, leaning forward just a bit for some better friction. He was going to come just like this, just from how perfectly Crowley’s cock filled him. “Not long, my dear, you feel so wonderful...”

Crowley let out a gutted noise, surging up to catch Aziraphale’s mouth with his own. He kissed messily, with a flattering desperation that lit a fire under Aziraphale’s skin. 

He sped up, kissing Crowley hard, and let that feeling inside him build and build until he burst with a soft cry, splattering Crowley’s stomach and both their thighs. He trembled, shutting his eyes tightly as it washed over him. Such a human sort of bliss, as good as Heaven but somehow nothing like it at all. He adored it. 

“Angel,” Crowley whined, sounding pitiful and needing.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and smiled down at him. “Oh, thank you for waiting, Crowley. Please, go ahead.”

Crowley made another incoherent noise and thrust up. It still felt wonderful, edging on too much, but Aziraphale had never been one to shrink away from the possibility of overdoing things. He picked up that desperate, rabbity pace that Aziraphale remembered from earlier, and cried out softly when he finally filled Aziraphale with his own release.

“I can see why they enjoy this so much,” Aziraphale said a bit breathlessly. “It’s great fun.”

“ _Angel,_ ” whispered Crowley, blinking open his lovely eyes and gazing at Aziraphale with something like wonder. “That was...”

“It was, rather, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale beamed at him and clambered off his hips, making a face at the feel of Crowley’s cock slipping out and the resulting mess. A little miracle took care of that, and the bedding, and Aziraphale bent over to retrieve his clothing. It was getting chilly, after all, now that they weren’t moving.

“I—yeah.” Crowley sat up slowly, watching Aziraphale get dressed.

Aziraphale paused once he’d gotten his shirt over his head. “Are you alright, Crowley?”

“Come here,” said Crowley in a soft, strange voice.

Aziraphale sat down beside him, politely puzzled, and gasped when Crowley grabbed him around the back of the neck to pull him in for another kiss. He nearly fell, knocked off balance by the force of it, and caught himself with a hand on the bed. “Crowley, what—?”

“Don’t say anything,” Crowley whispered, pulling Aziraphale tight against him and nuzzling his ear. “Not yet, alright? Just—”

Aziraphale softened, reaching up to stroke the nape of Crowley’s neck. He felt the demon shiver under his fingers. “Of course,” he murmured. In the quiet dark, reality was threatening to creep back in, and Aziraphale didn’t want to face it anymore than Crowley did. “Let’s just lay down.”

Crowley nodded, pressing his cheek tight against Aziraphale’s. “No one’s watching,” he whispered. “I checked. We can do as we like for now.”

Sweet, thoughtful Crowley! Aziraphale smiled. “You’re too good to me,” he said warmly, tugging Crowley down with him to snuggle under the blankets.

Crowley didn’t answer. All he did was pull Aziraphale close and wind around him like the serpent he was. He tucked his face neatly into the curve of Aziraphale’s neck, which was very sweet.

Aziraphale decided not to mention it. Crowley was still a demon, after all. He was bound to have some pride.

It was so very hard to remember that he was a demon, though, when he was snuffling softly against Aziraphale’s skin and stroking his back as though he were something precious. Aziraphale felt decidedly cherished, lying here in the circle of Crowley’s arms.

It was really a shame things couldn’t be different. Aziraphale tipped his head back, staring vacantly at the beams of the ceiling. Crowley was so kind and thoughtful, it was difficult to think of him as an enemy. But they were enemies, even if they were pretending very hard right now that this wasn’t so. If Aziraphale’s side learned of their association, Aziraphale would Fall. The thought terrified him. He tried to picture himself with dark wings and animalistic eyes, covered in pus and rotting things like all the other demons he’d seen. Maybe that was why he found it so hard to group Crowley in with that lot; Crowley was clean and lovely and smelled not of sulfur, but of smoke. It reminded Aziraphale of a warm hearth, something cozy. Like a home.

He could make a home here, with Crowley, if they were anyone except themselves. 

If only Crowley were still an angel. Then the gnawing gaping pit that was slowly opening in Aziraphale’s chest wouldn’t exist. If Crowley were an angel, they could spend all of eternity together, grooming one another’s wings and touching in public, and no one would think anything of it. They wouldn’t mate, of course; that was a very human activity. And they wouldn’t get lunch either. Aziraphale frowned, considering the fact that these were all his favorite things to do. If Crowley was an angel they’d never do any of them. That seemed very wrong, somehow.

But they could spend time together openly, and that sounded nearly good enough to give up fresh bread with butter and smoked salmon, or the feel of Crowley’s sweat-slick skin. Nearly. Aziraphale got a very strange, hollow feeling in his chest when he thought about Crowley as an angel. Did he look the same? Had they ever met, before the Fall? Aziraphale thought not, but he’d never be sure, and it would torment him. 

Not that it mattered. The being in his arms, the one tracing long fingers in delicate runes over his skin, was a demon. He couldn’t change that about Crowley, and he wasn’t convinced he wanted to. Perhaps that was a blasphemous thought, but he quite liked Crowley just as he was. He was so dear, after all, with his small acts of kindness and his compassion for the downtrodden. Aziraphale loved him for it.

And part of loving someone was willingness to protect them. This friendship endangered them both. If Aziraphale had to worry about Falling, then the stakes for Crowley were even higher. There was nowhere further to Fall for Crowley; if he was ever found in the arms of an angel, they would destroy him completely.

Aziraphale couldn’t let that happen. He just couldn’t. Something inside him howled like a storm when he thought about life without Crowley in it. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to keep this demon safe!

If they kept doing this, they would get sloppy. They’d get comfortable. They would make mistakes and get caught. Then Crowley would be destroyed and Aziraphale would be cast down to face Hell without him. The thought sent chills up his arms.

And he knew it was inevitable, because they already took risks, inventing intricate rituals that allowed them to see one another, devising stories to tell the head office if anyone were to catch them. Creating excuses to be together when they knew it was forbidden. A few lunches could be excused. Falling into bed together could not.

Crowley had asked him not to say anything, and so Aziraphale wouldn’t. Not yet. He would allow them to pretend for a few more hours that this was something they could keep, and then—

Oh, he would have to leave, wouldn’t he?

Aziraphale turned and pressed his lips to Crowley’s temple, right over the snake marking. Crowley raised his head, and whatever he saw in Aziraphale’s eyes made him frown.

“We still have tonight,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley looked pained. “Just tonight?”

Aziraphale kissed him, slow and deep, drawing a sweet muffled noise from his throat. “We can discuss it in the morning,” he told Crowley softly.

Crowley closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. “Not morning yet, though,” he pointed out.

Aziraphale pushed him gently onto his back. “No,” he agreed, moving over him, “it isn’t.”

—

By the time the sun rose, Aziraphale’s lips hurt from kissing and his arse was sore after taking Crowley’s cock twice more. There were marks on his skin that would have to be miracled away when they left the bed, but Crowley liked to touch them, so he let them be for a little longer.

But the light was growing brighter, and he couldn’t put it off forever. “Crowley.”

Crowley had been kissing intricate patterns on Aziraphale’s shoulder, but at the sound of his voice, he stilled. “Yeah?”

“I....I need to go,” Aziraphale told him. “We’ve spent too long together as it is.” 

Crowley didn’t say anything, but he rolled off Aziraphale and began to get dressed.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale bit his lip. “Crowley, I really don’t want to—”

“It’s fine, angel,” said Crowley shortly. “I get it.”

“I’m not quite sure you do,” said Aziraphale cautiously. Crowley’s fingers were mesmerizing as he laced up his leggings. “It isn’t that I want to go, please believe me.”

“Of course I believe you,” Crowley told him, scoffing. “You’re an angel, aren’t you? You couldn’t lie to me if you wanted to.”

“I’m afraid for us, Crowley!” Aziraphale clenched his fists. “You know what they would do if they found out.”

Crowley turned to him, shirtless and covered with marks from Aziraphale’s mouth. He was beautiful enough to make Aziraphale ache. “I know what the stakes are, yeah,” he said coolly. “I’ve been doing this as long as you, haven’t I? Don’t act like you’ve got to protect me.”

“You’ve protected me,” Aziraphale told him quietly. “It seems only fair.”

Crowley ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “Look,” he said, “I do get it, you know. Just—do me a favor, would you?”

“What is it?”

“Take the girl. Set her up in a convent somewhere, or a household where they won’t mistreat her.” Crowley looked away. “I’m not staying here either.”

Something in his expression hurt Aziraphale’s heart. “Crowley, I’m sorry—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Head office starts to get twitchy if I stay in one place too long, you know that.” Crowley forced a smile. “But I can’t get away with it, so you have to take care of her.”

“I will.” Aziraphale studied his face.

“Probably shouldn’t see each other for a bit after this either, should we?” The glib tone in Crowley’s voice pierced Aziraphale through the heart, even as he saw the wisdom in his words.

“A century or two, at least,” he agreed, heartsick.

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded. “That’ll do it. After that we’ll play it by ear.” He gave Aziraphale a sly look. “Don’t suppose you’ve given any thought to the arrangement I proposed back in Wessex?”

“Oh, how can you bring that up now!” Aziraphale cried, getting to his feet. He bit his lip, feeling ridiculous standing there trying not to cry when he’d been the one to suggest leaving. “Crowley—”

“ _No,_ ” Crowley growled, expression turning fierce. “Just think about it, Aziraphale. You’ll have a few hundred years.”

“I shall miss you,” Aziraphale confessed.

Crowley’s face softened. “It’ll fly by. Time always does.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Aziraphale looked down. “Crowley, thank you. For—everything.”

“Better not say that again.” Crowley jerked his chin up. “You’ve got to be careful, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, watching Crowley go down the stairs and say something to the girl. He knew without being told how this would go. Crowley didn’t want to say goodbye, so Aziraphale would remain here until he left. Then he would take the girl and his books and go down to the shore, and convince a ship to take them back to Britain, where he would pick up a new life. As clean and simple as plucking a blood feather before it caused you to bleed to death.

But oh, it hurt much the same way.

A few centuries, Crowley had said. That was sensible. By then the raw ache in Aziraphale’s chest would dull and he’d be able to look at the demon again without wanting to hold him. It was better this way. Better, always, to have part of something than all of nothing.

He would miss this village, and the precious time he and Crowley had shared here, and he would treasure their friendship in the secrecy of his own heart, where Gabriel and the other angels would never know of it. Aziraphale bowed his head, reminding himself that some things were unchangeable, and all he could do was accept them.

The door closed loudly, and the sound seemed to transport Crowley further away from Aziraphale’s reach. Some things were unchangeable. Crowley had never been something he could keep.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and went downstairs.


End file.
